


Golden

by sidnihoudini



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-18
Updated: 2007-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidnihoudini/pseuds/sidnihoudini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10 completely unrelated short stories.</p><p>“I don’t see how Armani suits are necessary for your sister’s wedding reception.”</p><p>Pete’s messing around with the automatic window switch. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Down. <i>Upupupupup</i> -- “Pete fucks sake, stop that.” Patrick’s hand lands over Pete’s, hard, and scratches his knuckles against the arm rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden

_01\. These hands will always be rough, I know this won’t count for much: rough hands, rough nights, rough hands, rough season, rough hands, rough fights._

He mostly sits in the far corner because he figures it’s as unassuming as he’s going to get, with his hands in his pockets and his hat pulled low over his face. The air is damp with sweat and dark in all of the corners, letting him get off on the loud rumble of the crowd, the low ceilings and overhead lighting. The fights.

He’s got it bad for this one guy, this one fighter. He’s only as tall as Patrick is, but he’s built like a fucking shithouse. He gets low and has energy long after the six-something 290-plus pound hound dogs have given up. Patrick sits there with his fingernails cutting half moons into his palms, legs bouncing, all the way through ‘til the end, when Wentz throws his arms up and looks too happy for someone so small and sinister.

Patrick doesn’t usually hang around after the fights. He works too early and the matches end too late, so by this time he’s usually hurrying back home with his hands in his pockets like a fucking Disney princess. But tonight’s different, tonight he’s got nothing but time, so he bums around in the parking lot, kicking cigarette buts and crushed coffee cup lids.

“You waiting on something?” 

He’s never heard him speak before: yell, taunt, laugh, sure, but never... _talk_. Patrick spins around, feeling like he’s been caught red-handed.

Pete’s standing near a van a couple parking spaces away, he’s still a bit damp from the fight but he’s wrapped in black so it’s hardly noticeable.

“No...” Patrick shakes his head and trails off. “Uh.” He twitches. “Yeah.”

Grinning wickedly, Pete raises his eyebrows and rests one hand on the back hatch of the van. 

“Well,” He says, sucking off his front teeth. “Which is it -- no, or yes?”

Patrick backtracks as quickly as possible. “I’m _kinda_ waiting for somebody,” He tries.

“I see you every night, you know,” Pete comments, tipping his head to the side a little, the maniac-grin now replaced with only half that, something almost vague. A slight tremor runs through Patrick’s hands. “Sitting up in the stands with your hat low and your knees up on the bench in front of you. It’s hot. That whole mysterious thing, you know.”

“Ye -- yeah.” Patrick nods a little -- he doesn’t think he _really_ knows.

“I’ve been seeing you for a while,” Pete unlocks the car and drops the back hatch down, throws his equipment in. They’re barehanded fights, the only equipment he has is a change of clothes. “How come you’ve never stayed late before?”

“Work.” Patrick ventures over the two-three feet that separate them, watching as Pete grins over the curve of his shoulder.

.

Patrick’s in the bathroom of a run-down bar before the hour is through, pressed up against a grimy green tiled wall, palms flat, head back. Pete’s on him like a bad itch, hands up his shirt -- strong hands, Patrick breathes inside his head, _rough_ hands -- wet mouth on his aching neck.

“I’m always hard after a fight,” Pete murmurs, hips up against Patrick’s stomach, muscles twitchy and tense. One of Pete’s hands run down the side of Patrick’s torso. “God, you’re so fucking _hot_.”

Laughing awkwardly, Patrick looks up at the ceiling when Pete mouths the front column of his throat, and thinks vaguely of dentist’s appointments and mechanical rising chairs.

Pete slides the palm of his hand flat against Patrick’s stomach and down into his pants.

Groaning, Patrick closes his eyes, and grips hard at the back of Pete’s neck.

.

Three weeks later he’s propped up against the doorway that separates the dressing room from the ring -- he’s half asleep but more alive than he’s been in years. Rolling his head against the doorframe, he watches, looks up into the illegal electrician lights hung off of the bare rafters, all bundled together and plugged into one power cord. He thinks of that mass exploding like mistimed fireworks over top of Pete’s head.

“He’s good tonight,” Ant, one of Pete’s buddies but mostly just his manager, comments from inside the doorway. Patrick glances over his shoulder and nods, then moves to the side so Ant can get through. “Really good.”

Pete grins so wide it looks like it might crack, and throws his arms up into the air, chest heaving, panting hard. Patrick tries to hide his smirk, and folds his hands under his arms so he won’t fucking, _clap,_ or something equally dangerous.

 

.

 

_02\. A paralyzed puppet sits stiff in the window, grinding his teeth and playing piano. All his songs bleed together in a flat line blur, a broken litany of worthless words, creating space while your drinks get served._

“Are you bored?” Pete sets his drink down on the edge of the piano. “Cause I’m bored.”

He watches the side of the pianist’s face, surly but concentrated, eyes narrowed against the front of the piano even though Pete is straining to find a book of hidden sheet music.

Finally, Pete hears him grit out a sour, “I’m _working_.”

“And I’m _easy_.” Pete pushes him by the shoulder until there’s enough room for him to sit down on the bench, too. “I’m also Pete. You’re pretty good.”

He throws Pete a fierce look from the corner of his eyes. “I’m pretty much a prodigy.”

“If you’re such a prodigy,” Pete reaches up for his drink and knocks into three keys on the way there. “Then why are you playing such a shitty Chicago business convention?”

The key rhythm speeds up, Pete’s entranced by the movement of his hands. He’s playing with heart, now, fueled by words.

“I know who you are,” An entire crescendo of notes. “That doesn’t make your appeal any greater.”

Pete grins, thoroughly amused, and takes a thoughtful sip of his drink. 

“Well, I know you’re a ‘prodigy,’ but I’m not that intimidated either. I guess you could say we’re even.” He waits out the last few pieces of the song -- Pete knows this one, it’s a Muzak favorite and he’s sure he heard it in the elevator of his doctor’s office earlier this week. “So what’s up, do I get a name from you or do I have to go rave about your talent to Sally the Booking Manager just to get a reference?”

Shaking his hands out, the player grabs a drink from a passing-by waiter. “Patrick.”

“That wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been,” Pete grins into the curve of his wine glass. “I thought you were going to make this difficult for me.”

Patrick flashes a half-smile, almost, and Pete feels slightly vindicated as he moves to get up off of the bench. “Consider this the foreword, then. You haven’t even _hit_ the conflict.”

“I like you,” Pete calls to Patrick’s back, disappearing into the sea of suits and snakes.

Grinning at the row of keys on the piano, Pete shakes his head, and tosses back the rest of his drink.

 

.

 

_03\. In a coffee shop behind menus into a porcelain cup where you broke the news, and you said, there’s nothing here left for you, and I guess you meant me, too._

“Naw, that’s not how it is.” He shakes his head and taps the last half of the sugar packet into his coffee, almost catches his elbow on the specials menu as he pulls away. 

Patrick leans back in the creaky booth seat, and holds the table edge with both palms, surprised but not very. “Tell me how it is, then,” He says, voice even.

“It’s like...” Pete trails off, and flicks the empty sugar packet over his shoulder. “I’m done with this town, is all.”

“If you think I’m going to beg for you to take me with you,” Patrick reaches to carefully stir his straight-black coffee with a plastic spoon. “Then you’re wrong.”

Pete shakes his head, and sucks a few stray crystals of sugar from his thumb.

“I never expected that,” He says, and won’t admit that he did. That he wanted it, the dramatic scene in the corner of a french-inspired cafe. He wanted it all.

Patrick holds his gaze level. “You never expected it,” He sets the spoon down, piping hot and dripping with coffee. “But you wanted it.”

“So what.” Pete ducks his gaze. “Everybody wants -- “

“Everybody wants what they can’t have,” Patrick cuts in with a roll of the eyes, knowing the words Pete might as well tattoo on his forehead so he wouldn’t have to bother saying them anymore. “So when are you going to start loving what you’ve got?”

Pete sits still, quiet.

Maybe he can’t.

 

.

 

_04\. My boyfriend’s back, and you’re gonna be in trouble._

“Fuck, fuck, window!” He stage-whispers, out of breath and time, trying to pull an inside out shirt on over his head.

Pete hurries around the side of the bed with an entire weekend’s worth of clothing bundled up in his arms. “You said he wasn’t supposed to be back ‘til _Tuesday!_ ” 

“Shut up!” Patrick’s jamming his hands into Pete’s sides, hoping it’ll spur him to move faster, but all it really does is make him squirm and twitch. “Window! Window! Window!”

“I’m still _hard_ ,” Pete complains, frowning as he tosses at least two pairs of more-than-one-paycheck pants out the window, hoping they don’t look too obvious falling from the dark sky.

Patrick’s hands are still insistently jamming into the small of Pete’s back.

“I’m in _shit_ if he -- “

The door creaks open: they both freeze, Patrick with his eyes closed tight, mouth twisted up into a fantastically wide grimace; Pete with both hands on the window ledge, only wearing a pair of too-small boxer briefs, one eye squeezed shut, the other squinted. So what if he’s _curious_?

“Patr -- what the fuck?” Someone bellows. Patrick’s face falls, Pete launches himself off of the window frame with one foot. He’d rather eat astro turf than the all too encompassing fist of Patrick’s “better” half.

He lands on one hip -- hard -- and groans. Upstairs, he can hear the argument getting louder and louder. When Patrick glances out the window once to make sure Pete’s hard landing wasn’t _too_ hard, he finishes gathering up his clothes with a smug knowledge of _I am so It, you just don’t know yet._

Mostly naked and trying to cover the vast majority of the landscaping to search out that one last sock, Pete drops everything and runs when the front door bangs open.

He doesn’t want it _that_ bad.

 

.

 

_05\. We keep our love in a plain brown box._

“My wallet is...” Pete steps back and pats down the back of his pants, concurrently surveying the valley of packed and unpacked moving boxes around him. “..Somewhere.”

In the apartment doorframe, the delivery girl looks less than pleased as she snaps her gum, loud, and switches the stack of Chinese food from one arm to the other.

“That the food?” Patrick shouts from somewhere inside the depths of the rental. To Pete it sounds bedroom-esque, that easy echo that floats down the hallway. Pete doesn’t have time to answer before Patrick’s yell-adding, “You have money?”

“I lost my wallet!” Pete steps over a stack of shoeboxes parading as CD holders, and sends a weary grin over his shoulder at the girl. She looks like she might be interested in easing off a little, but Pete’s gonna have to work her a bit more.

Soft sock-on-wood footsteps and Patrick comes into the room, between a precarious stack of crushed on one side boxes and electronics. He’s got Pete’s wallet in his hand.

Pete takes the food and lets Patrick dig around his wallet long enough to hand the money over.

“Thanks,” He hears behind him, as Patrick closes the door. 

The smell of the greasy food and dusty moving boxes is enough to mollify Pete into spreading himself out in the middle of His Very Own Empire, population: me and you, Patrick.

“I totally wanted pizza,” Patrick sighs, dropping down onto the floor across from Pete.

Grinning up from the shiny on one side lids, Pete raises his eyebrows. “Chinese is the official food of moving in, Patrick. Come _on_.”

“Shut up,” Patrick whispers under his breath, but Pete sees a hesitant grin somewhere beneath.

 

.

 

_06\. And I cast a spell over the west to make you think of me._

“Where’s my fucking bagboy,” Cynthia complains, flicking at her fingernails, leaving chipped little pieces of polish all over the front of the cash register.

In the ‘til next to hers, Margaret frowns hard. “Mine is missing, too.”

.

“Ah fuck, ah, ah. _Fuck_ , Pete, that -- ow -- ow, ow, fuck, _oh god_ , do that -- ow!”

Pete’s half-laughing-half-moaning into the dip in Patrick’s shoulder, hips bucking fast, fingers sliding around the front belt loops of Patrick’s jeans. A flood of paper towel rolls coming from the shelf above them seems to be under tsunami status as Patrick reaches back and wraps his fingers around the edge of the shelf. 

“Jesus Christ,” Pete gasps into the spot under Patrick’s chin, toes locking at the joints when Patrick does this -- thing -- and Pete can’t figure out -- what -- the fuck -- why -- it feels so good all of a sudden. Then, uh, oh _yeah._

He groans low and lets his grip loosen on Patrick’s pants.

One long second before Patrick lets go of the shelf and drops down a few inches, then:

“Y -- you were fucking _humping_ me,” He gasps, still panting and trying to catch his breath. “ _Dry._ ”

Pete snickers, like Patrick has any room to talk. “And you loved every _second_.”

Lowering his hands just in time for one more Bounty roll to hit the flat of his head and bounce off, Patrick frowns.

“Well. Yeah.”

.

“I am so getting Floyd to fire them,” Cynthia promises, tossing a few stray lemons into a plastic bag before she thrusts it towards the bewildered customer.

Just as Margaret goes to reply, mouth open and waiting, Pete stumbles out of the store room, looking pleased. 

Cynthia frowns at him.

“Hi, ladies,” He grins, doing up his green apron at the back. “Miss me?”

 

.

 

_07\. Sorry, that was rude of me. Forget I said a thing, but don’t forget it when you’re staring at him._

“Sorry.” Patrick shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “What?”

A slow drone of a voice, and god _damnit_ , Patrick thinks to himself, this isn’t how it works. 

Sighing, he pushes up the brim of his hat, and scratches his forehead. Somewhere, maybe in another room (but in reality right in front of him, same hotel room number, same key, same booked dates) that voice keeps on, this boring noise that Patrick immediately wants to close a palm over and shut out.

Because here’s what he _can_ hear, crisp and perfect: “It’s a shame, me and you coulda been Kings.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Jack is fucking fantastic. He presses the flat of his thumb into the not-there dent on his chin. Jack is smart and quirky. He palms the flats of his legs, and moves down to his ankles. Jack puts up with his shit. He wraps his hands around his ankles, and tries to concentrate. Jack doesn’t pretend to be Pete.

Patrick slides each pointer finger against the tongue of his shoes.

...but Pete used to -- 

Pete used to grin like he was some kind of real dumbass, that stupid laugh of his loud and obnoxious like the rest of him. He’d usually be bouncing around, pissing Patrick off or making him laugh or turning him on --

Used to look real smug all the time, whenever Patrick was around, and Patrick knew what it was about so _he’d_ look smug too, just under the clause that he knew he _could._

“Sorry,” Patrick says again, laughing softly, desperately. He stands up and shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”

Jack’s mouth isn’t moving, anymore, but all Patrick can hear is _we coulda been kings we coulda been kings we coulda -- Patrick -- we coulda been kings, Patrick, kings, we coulda been kings._

 

.

 

_08\. Bleaching your teeth, smile and flash, talking trash under your breath._

“It was fucking ridiculous,” Joe comments, reaching across the table to secure his investment in some single serving ketchup packets.

“Totally.” Pete is grinning and wiggling around in his seat like a puppy, grabbing at Patrick’s arm (Patrick’s arm that’s attached to Patrick’s hand that’s attached to Patrick’s tuna sandwich which is trying to be attached to Patrick’s mouth) whenever an exciting plot point comes up. “The hydrant exploded everywhere, it was _awesome_.”

Patrick leans forward and manages to catch a corner of the sandwich in his mouth, even though it mainly ends up being lettuce and bread. No tuna.

“You shoulda come with us,” Pete concludes, slinging his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, almost knocking the sandwich to the floor with the side of his hand. “It was a night that history is made of.”

“It was pretty great,” Joe admits, squeezing the ketchup all over his plate. Patrick tries to ignore the mixing fragrance of ketchup and tuna. And Pete’s apple cobbler that Patrick is pretty sure he managed to snag an extra portion of after sweet-talking the cafeteria lady.

It doesn’t matter Pete’s three and a half grades higher than Patrick -- could’ve, would’ve been four and a half if he hadn’t failed that one class -- because Patrick’s always felt a little older than he really is, and he’s pretty sure Pete is the opposite.

“New rule,” Andy grimaces, from Patrick’s other side. “Joe no longer gets to eat ketchup, ever. Dude it’s all over your _shirt._ ”

.

“Why are your pants so low?” 

Patrick’s trying to disappear as far into his locker as he can get, if for nothing more than to get away from the monotonous soft hush of some girl and Pete talking on the other side of the door.

 _Locker buddies,_ Pete had said back in September. _It’ll be fun._

“Easy access,” Is Pete’s reply, which sparks immediate maniac-laughter from her.

Patrick rolls his eyes into the bleary distance of his locker’s innards, and mouths along to her reply: “For _who?_ ”

“Oh, you know.” Patrick mouths along to that too, as he’s trying to find his algebra text and the notes Pete bought from his house from when he took the same class a couple years ago. Patrick doesn’t know how much he can rely on those. Pete usually takes notes in the margins of his lyric-pages. “I like to keep that part a secret. I’m kind of a private person.”

Heaving the text books out of the locker and using his hip as a rest, Patrick slams the door closed, loudly, and gets a little splinter of satisfaction when Suzie NoName jumps, startled.

“You ready?” Patrick asks, using the side of his arm to push his glasses up. Pete grins and slides one hand into his back pocket, making his pants just _that_ much lower.

He crosses the dirty floored distance between Patrick and The Girl, grabs half the stack of Patrick’s books without so much as asking, and starts down the mostly empty hall. He comments on Patrick’s shoes twice (they’re really Pete’s) and asks if his pants are really that low once (they are).

Back at the locker, the girl stands, smiling fondly.

 

.

 

_09\. Oh yes I’m fine, everything’s just wonderful. I’m having the time of my life._

“I’m fucking late,” Patrick complains, appearing in the mirror behind Pete’s head in a pair of crooked underwear but not much else. “Again. As usual.”

Pete rinses off his razor. “Chill, dude.” He flicks it back and forth, drying off the razor and leaving little droplets of water literally everywhere. “It’s not even six thirty, plenty of time.”

“I’ve got to _shower_ ,” Patrick sighs, looking forlorn between the shower stall and just crawling back into the mediocre hotel bed. He glances over at Pete, and scratches the side of his hip, pushing his underwear down even more. “Five bucks says nobody misses me if I just hang out here all day?”

Running the razor over his face with a careful stroke, Pete doesn’t reply until his hands are both accounted for in front of the sink. He’s got this thing about accidentally cutting a main artery -- Patrick thinks it’s kind of unfounded.

“Screw everything else,” He announces, watching Patrick watch him in the mirror. “I’ll miss you if you aren’t there. And I’ll be _bored_.”

Snorting, Patrick moves to scratch the back of his head. “You’re darling to me. Really.”

“I try.” Pete grins at himself in the mirror, and brings the razor up again.

,

Forty five minutes later, running late but dressed fashionably, they hurry through the hotel lobby and out to the valet.

.

“I don’t see how Armani suits are necessary for your sister’s wedding reception.”

Pete’s messing around with the automatic window switch. Up. Down. Up. Down. Down. Down. Down. _Upupupupup_ \-- “Pete fucks sake, stop that.” Patrick’s hand lands over Pete’s, hard, and scratches his knuckles against the arm rest.

“Ow,” He says, even though it barely stings, as he tugs his hand out from the bottom of the pile and tries to shake it off. “She just likes _quality_ , okay.”

“Yeah right,” Patrick snorts and crosses his legs, one ankle on the other knee. “You just want some excuse to flaunt your money, don’t lie to me.”

Kind of frowning but not really, Pete tips his head back against the seat.

“But everyone in my family’s rich,” He shrugs, rolling his head just in time to see Patrick gaze up at the huge church his sister chose. Pete thinks he sees the chunk of Patrick’s head that appreciates fascinating architecture _just that much_ bulge.

Patrick rolls down the window, Pete debates slapping his hand away with a _fucks sake_ just to keep the score 1-1. 

 

.

 

_10\. And sometimes, lonely hearts, they just get lonelier._

“Oh, sorry,” He murmurs, distracted, one hand on his sidekick and the other on the edge of the door.

The customer behind him smiles, equally distant, and shakes his head, stepping out into the rain.

Pete goes one way, and Patrick goes the other.


End file.
